


Where Do We Go, Nobody Knows

by nightshifted



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshifted/pseuds/nightshifted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Noah Puckerman was second, and once when he wasn't. Kind of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Do We Go, Nobody Knows

Noah Puckerman is eight when he meets Santana Lopez.

It's recess, and he's sitting on the steps, tossing pebbles at random girls, when a small girl from his class walks up to him, her arms crossed over her chest. Despite her tiny frame, Noah senses something different about her. A strength that draws him in.

"Get out of the way," he tells her, trying to slide along the steps and away from the obstacle in front of him.

"You hit Brittany," the girl says darkly.

"'Cause I have awesome aim," Noah fires back, kicking at the pebbles near his feet. "Now get out of the way."

The girl only leans closer. " _No_. You hit Brittany. Go say you're sorry."

"I'm _not_ sorry." He kicks at the pebbles again. "Move it."

She steps on his foot. Not hard, just threateningly. "Listen, you punk. You hit anybody else on the playground, but _not Brittany_. You do it one more time and I'm gonna put so much gum in your hair, you'll have to shave it."

Noah cracks a grin. "I can rock that look," he shrugs, running a hand through his dark hair. "Did you know Darth Vader is bald? He's so cool."

The girl's features tighten into an amused sneer. "Can you rock a black eye though?"

"Like to see you try," he counters, rising to his feet. They're both smiling now, and he holds out his hand. "I'm Noah."

"Santana," the girl replies immediately, slapping at his palm but not letting him grip her hand. "Leave Brittany alone."

\--

Noah Puckerman is ten when his father stops coming home.

It's actually better this way. There's less yelling, and his mother stops crying so much, and his sister stops sneaking into his room at night and crawling under his covers with her hands over her ears.

So it's a good thing, mostly. Except for the part where he doesn't have a dad. But whatever. His best bro Finn doesn't have one either, so it's cool.

Sometimes it still sucks. It sucks because his dad was chill about him hanging around, and he taught Noah how to do some awesome things, like pop wheelies and spiral a football.

It especially sucks when there's nothing to do and his mind wanders and he seriously _misses_ his dad. Like a crazy amount. What Noah needs a distraction, but his mom took his sister to some dumbass fair, and Finn's out of town. Everything blows. He's pretty sure that he could curl up and disappear and nobody would even notice.

But then the doorbell rings and Santana is on his front porch with a baseball and a pair of baseball gloves, rocking a sideways Buckeyes cap.

She tosses him a glove and motions for him to follow her. "Come on."

He stays put. Nobody bosses Noah around. "Where are we going?"

"Your backyard, dummy," Santana says before disappearing around the side of his house.

Noah closes and locks the front door, then picks up his shoes and runs through his house to reach the back. He steps outside and slips his feet into his sneakers. Santana is tossing the ball up in the air, waiting for him.

"Sometime before Christmas," Santana taunts.

Noah groans and pushes his hand into the glove, then punches the palm a few times for effect. He jogs to the other side of his backyard and extends his arms. "Sometime before New Year's," he goads back.

Santana throws, and the ball lands in Noah's glove with a thump. He takes it out and throws it back, and they go back and forth for a couple minutes, neither saying anything.

It's nice. Santana's a girl, which is kind of gross, but she's not like the other girls who giggle and act stupid on purpose. She's smart, and really pretty – but _don't_ tell her that – and well, she's here, distracting him from being completely miserable.

But if there's something ten-year-old Noah has already picked up from his father, it's this:

"You throw like a girl," he says even though it's not true. Santana's got an arm.

"Shut up," she grumbles as she tosses him the ball.

"No, really," he continues, whipping it back at her, "you're like, so crap at this."

On the next catch, she keeps the ball. "Fuck off," she says, the words a little too rough for her. She tears off her glove and tosses it down on the grass before storming off.

Noah scratches the back of his head as he runs after her. "Santana," he calls out, "it was just a joke."

Santana stops and spins around. "It wasn't _funny_."

Noah frowns. "What's the matter with you?"

"I could be playing with Brittany right now," Santana blurts out, and Noah's heart stops. "But my dad thinks I should play with you, just 'cause your stupid dad ditched you."

There's silence, and Noah instinctively steps forward and shoves Santana to the ground. Santana jumps back up immediately and shoves him back. He staggers backwards but doesn't fall.

"What the hell was that for?" she cries, rubbing her elbow.

"I don't need you to feel _sorry_ for me," he shoots back angrily. "I don't need _anyone_."

Santana's scowl smoothes away, and her eyes soften.

"You shouldn't have pushed me," she says quietly.

"Whatever," Noah mumbles.

Something flashes across Santana's eyes. "I said _don't push me_."

"Then don't come here pretending to be my friend when you really just want to play with Brittany," Noah fumes.

Santana starts to walk away. "Fine, whatever," she dismisses. "I'm going to Brittany's."

\--

Noah Puckerman is twelve when he adopts a new persona.

The name Noah is kind of gay. Or at least it's not nearly badass enough, and when he gets to high school, he's going to rule that place. With a name like Noah, he'll be kicked to the bottom of the pile. Ignored. Nothing's worse than being ignored.

So Noah decides he has to reinvent himself. A new name. A new look. A new attitude. He's going to be a person who doesn't care when the world spits on him. He's going to be a person who spits back.

Finn just laughs at him when he tells him. "Seriously, dude? You can't change who you are, man. Just be yourself. It'll be cool."

Noah calls Santana next. She's way smarter than Finn, and Noah knows she cares too much about what others think. She'll understand what he means.

She's over in fifteen minutes, arms crossed over her chest like she's already bored.

She rolls her eyes at him. "You want to stop being such a loser, is that it?"

"I'm not a loser," Noah huffs. "I just want to be like, a total badass."

"Right, whatever." She studies him for a moment, then her eyes light up. "I got an idea."

She pulls him into his bathroom and digs around under his sink until she finds an electric hair clipper. Noah holds out his hands defensively when she plugs it in.

"Whoa, what do you think you're doing?"

"Relax. I'm going to transform you from dumpy to super hot."

Noah looks at her suspiciously. "By shaving my head?"

Santana smirks. "You'll see." But then Noah backs away and Santana rolls her eyes. "Stop being a baby. Don't you trust me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, because yeah, he does, which is kind of messed up, because she's always insulting him. But she's never done anything to really hurt him, which is more than he can say about most people in his life.

Eyeing the clippers in her hand warily, he shrugs again. "Okay, whatever. Let's just get this over with. But if you screw up my look—"

"Yeah, yeah," Santana dismisses. She pushes herself onto the counter and parts her legs, then motions for him to approach.

He steps into her space, and her thighs frame his hips. She smiles at him, and he smiles back and looks down. He hears her giggle, then hears the sound of the clippers as it whirrs close to his ear.

She touches his shoulder. "Ready?"

He nods and shuts his eyes. Santana smells really good, is his first thought. He winces when the clippers make contact with his hair, fighting the urge to step away. It's too late. Tufts of hair are raining down his shoulders, and if either of them had had an ounce of foresight, they probably would've wrapped him up first.

Noah squeezes his eyes tighter and waits. Santana's movements are careful as she slides the clipper from one side of his head to the next, and his hands come to rest against her hips. It's nice, kind of.

It doesn't take long. He feels her hands brushing his scalp to remove the last stray strands of hair.

"Open your eyes, doofus. I didn't maim you."

Noah takes a deep breath and looks up. Santana's smiling at him, but her body is covering the mirror behind her. "Is it bad?"

"It's bad _ass_." She slides to the side so he can look at his reflection. "Check it out."

Noah's jaw drops open. "Oh, _shit_." He runs his hand over the strip of hair that remains across the top of his head. "This is fucking _awesome_."

Santana grins. "Told you."

"My mom's going to _kill_ me," he breathes as he continues to admire his new haircut. He smirks up at her. "You're the best."

"Sure am," she says as she pushes him away and hops off the counter. "But I'm not cleaning up this mess."

He doesn't clean it either, just changes into some new clothes and leaves everything on the bathroom floor. Santana is lying on his bed when he steps into his room.

His hands burrow into his pockets. "When we get to high school, you wanna be my girlfriend?" he asks casually, but as soon as the question is out of his mouth, he wants her to say yes, and not just because rejection completely sucks.

Santana snorts and tilts her head to look at him. "You serious?"

Noah shrugs and deflects with a quick, "Whatever."

Santana sobers up, pushing herself up to rest on her elbow. "You're serious." Not a question this time.

He shrugs again. "You're like, the only girl I can even stand to be around."

She smiles a little at that. "Okay, whatever, maybe. At least you look kind of hot now, with your new haircut."

He runs his hand through it again. "Yeah."

"Puck," she says suddenly. "You should get people to call you Puck. Short for Puckerman."

He considers it for a moment. "Yeah?"

She nods. "Yeah, totally."

He grins. "Puck," he echoes, letting the syllable roll off his tongue. "Hey, guess what it rhymes with."

Santana rolls her eyes and chucks a pillow at him. He tosses it back, and she watches him squirm for a moment, a small smirk curling across her lips. He steps closer to the bed, palms suddenly sweaty.

"So like, can we make out?"

She pushes herself onto her elbows. "I didn't agree to be your girlfriend."

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed and smirks at her. "Don't need to be my girlfriend for that."

Puck flops down next to Santana and lightly hipchecks her to the side. She bumps him back, but then curls gently against his side.

"Okay."

He grins. "Okay?"

"Yeah, why not?" She shrugs her shoulders. "'S long as you keep up this bad boy image, don't whine about anything – and I mean it, not a _word_ about how you keep losing at Super Mario just 'cause you suck at it—"

He nudges her away. "I don't suck at it."

"—and buy me stuff."

He smiles a little, then leans over and risks a peck on the cheek. She pulls away, but from the way her lips curl, he can tell she likes the attention.

She stays a little longer than usual, plays absentmindedly with the strip of hair on his head, and when her phone buzzes and she checks it with a tiny little grin on her face, he pretends not to care.

\--

Noah Puckerman is fourteen when he loses his virginity.

It's every bit the cliché: he's at a party, he's tipsy, and he's making out with Santana in a bedroom he's pretty sure they're not supposed to be occupying. His head is spinning and there's pressure between his legs where Santana's thigh rests, and Santana's skin is warm under his palms. She gasps against his mouth when he bucks his hips, and she pulls away, just slightly.

"Puck," she exhales, breath hot and ragged. It's not a protest but a pause.

He kisses her again, and she shuts up. And when his hand moves up her thigh and under her skirt, she doesn't stop him.

It's her first time too, and she's making soft sounds against his mouth, and it's too much. Puck fumbles around, hating his own uncertainty, head spinning out of control.

"Focus," Santana hisses, the word catching in her throat when his lips press roughly against hers.

Somewhere in the haze of hormones and desperation, Puck feels safe with Santana. Her body is familiar, from the column of her neck to the curve of her hips to the curl of her toes. _She_ is familiar, and there's security in knowing that she wants the same thing he does: acknowledgment, attention, affection.

He's too young, and unprepared. It happens too quickly, and then it's over.

She lies next to him on the bed afterward, staring up at the ceiling, her body glistening with a light sheen of sweat. It's hot, but when he reaches over to pull her closer, she recoils.

"It'll like, get better," he tells her, feeling the hit to his pride. "It's just 'cause you've never done it before."

"You haven't either," she replies quietly. "Was it good for you?"

It'd been amazing, but he doesn't want it going to her head, so he shrugs his shoulders. "It was okay."

She groans and rises from the bed, the muscles in her back shifting as she searches the floor for her clothes.

"Babe, where are you going?"

"To find Britt." Her movements slow momentarily, as though she's surprised by her own response.

He tries to ignore the twinge in his chest and instead asks, "We're totally gonna do this again, right?"

Her eyes flicker, and she looks him up and down before looking away. "Yeah, sure."

He watches her leave. Something at the pit of his stomach tells him that's not exactly the way it's supposed to happen, but he's too happy about his first orgasm with a girl to really notice.

\--

Noah Puckerman is sixteen when he goes to juvie.

It's stupid. Like, really fucking stupid. He needed a little cash for brass knuckles and his impulses just took over.

Anyway, he and his boy Artie end up taking Brittany and Santana on a double date, and Santana's strangely impressed with everything that comes out of his mouth. It's actually starting to really freak him out. He knows he's hot shit, but Santana's the one person who's never given him any credit for it, and suddenly she's sitting there telling him how he should be the president.

Fuck yeah, he should be the president of the whole damn universe! It's just weird that Santana's the one to say so.

But he stops thinking about anything altogether when he realizes that he could potentially score a threesome out of the evening, because Artie loses his freaking balls, so they leave him at the restaurant and head out to his car. The two girls climb into the backseat, and he jumps in the front and pulls out of that driveway so fast he nearly runs someone over. His dick should totally get its own driver's license.

"Drop Brittany off at her place," Santana says suddenly. He glances briefly in the rearview mirror and catches her glaring at him. "I said—"

"I heard you," he snaps, turning his head briefly. "Give me one good reason."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Brittany's grip tighten around Santana's arm.

"'Cause I said so. We're not having a threesome with you." She waits a moment, and when no reaction is forthcoming, she sighs. "Puck." Her tone is firm, but there's a hint of exhaustion there.

Something shifts in his chest, and _fuck_ , since when did he start giving a shit?

Puck takes the next right and heads for Brittany's, cursing himself the entire way. He sits in the driver's seat of his truck and watches the two girls walk up to Brittany's porch. Brittany leans in then, sliding her lips slowly against Santana's, and their bodies press closer. Puck sits up and squints into the darkness, his interest piqued.

But what he finds is not something he'd store in his spank bank. The scene unfolding before him makes him uncomfortable, like he's intruding, an unwelcome spectator.

Puck watches as Santana hand brushes Brittany's collar, and she leans closer to whisper something in Brittany's ear. A smile spreads across Brittany's lips, and she nods. Santana glances around before pressing a quick kiss to Brittany's cheek. With one last lingering look, Brittany walks inside, and Santana makes her way back to his car.

Santana enters silently and buckles her seatbelt.

"You're such a cock tease," Puck grumbles.

"You're an idiot," she tells him, but there's an uncharacteristic lack of bite behind her words.

Puck exhales. "What are my chances of getting laid tonight? 'Cause I don't want to put up with your PMS bullshit if I'm not at least getting a blowjob out of it." When Santana neither responds nor smacks him, he nudges her with his elbow. "Hey, what's up with you tonight?"

Puck starts to pull away from Brittany's house, but he's barely at the first intersection when Santana says, "What happened to us?"

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. "You turned into a bitch."

Santana stiffens. "Fuck off, I was always a bitch, and you were always an asshole, and that's how we worked best. But somewhere between you cheating on me to have a kid with the chastity princess of Lima, Ohio and your ass being carted off to the slammer, you turned into this colossal dick."

"I've always been second to fucking Brittany," he blurts out.

Santana looks neither surprised nor shaken. She turns to him and with uncharacteristic tenderness, asks, "That's what this is about?"

Puck clenches his jaw. "No," he grumbles, pissed at himself admitting it. "I don't fucking know. You're always just—shit, Santana, you know how it feels to always be second? Second to Finn, second to Brittany, second to my stupid sister, and the worst part is, I know I fucking deserve it."

Santana shuts her eyes. "You don't—" Her voice cracks. "You don't deserve to feel like that, Puck."

It's probably the nicest thing she's ever said to him, and it only occurs to him then how fucked up that is.

"I think I might like girls," Santana says, and Puck can't figure out the connection there, but he takes it as a peace offering. Give up a secret and get one in return.

"Yeah, no shit," Puck can't help but fire back. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Santana clenching her jaw, and he deflates. "So you're gay?"

Santana shrugs. "I don't know. I just like girls."

Puck leans back in his seat and laughs. "Yeah, I know how that is. But you like guys, too, right? I mean, when we were together, you were totally into it."

Santana shrugs again and glances out the window. "I don't know," she repeats, uncharacteristically uncertain.

Puck drives her home. He figures he's gotta be a good guy, reform and all that shit after spending time in juvie, and there's no better place to start. Plus, Santana kind of looks like she's about to cry, and he straight-up sucks at dealing with that.

When Puck pulls into Santana's driveway, she turns to him with red-rimmed eyes, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinks away tears. He thinks he should probably offer her a hug or something, but he's just spent the entire night trying to get into her pants, so he's like, morally conflicted.

"Stop letting people convince you that you're second-best," Santana says quietly, and there—he hadn't been expecting that. It kind of hurts to hear.

But because he can't help but say exactly what he feels, he responds with, "A little rich coming from you, don't you think?"

He almost hears the scrape of metal as her shields immediately fly back up. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?" she snaps, features hardening.

"It means… oh, I don't know, Santana. Quinn? Artie? Even Rachel."

" _Rachel_? No, fuck that, why would I feel inferior to freaking Rachel?"

"Not _inferior_ , just—" He shuts up then, because she's glaring at him like he's stupid, and he doesn't need that. He takes a deep breath. "Never mind. If getting naked isn't gonna happen in the next two minutes, I'm going home."

Santana doesn't budge. "I didn't know." Her chin quivers. "I didn't know that you cared or noticed. I didn't mean to make you feel like you were always second choice."

"But I was."

"Yeah, well, I was never your first, either, and you know it." She laughs, almost bitterly. "I just thought all you wanted was someone to mack on."

Puck remains quiet, because yeah, that'd been the plan. But he likes her, more than he wants to admit on most days.

"I went out with you tonight because I wanted to feel normal again," Santana finally admits. "I thought maybe if I just made you buy me dinner and then fool around a little…"

And then there are actual tears streaming down her face, and Puck shifts nervously, unsure what to do. He hesitates a moment before unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding closer. He lets her cry it out against his shoulder.

When Santana falls quiet, she pulls away. "I should go before my mom chases you off our property with a broom."

Puck gives Santana's shoulder a squeeze. "Hey, if it helps, we can hang out and talk about how totally freaky hot all the girls in Glee Club are."

Santana laughs at that. "Okay."

Puck nods. "Okay," he echoes. "It's cool. I totally knew you were into chicks."

She plays with the hem of her skirt. "You're kinda the first person I've told. Out loud, I mean."

He grins, because he gets what she's saying and why she's making a point of saying it. He gets _her_. Well, most of the time, anyway. He's never going to understand why she'd rather watch trashy TV than play Mario Kart. It's _Mario Kart_. Whatever.

Santana smiles faintly, pecks him on the cheek, then hops out of his truck. He watches her walk up to her porch and disappear into her house before sliding back and pulling his truck out of her driveway.

Before he gets to the end of the street, his phone buzzes. He juggles it out of his pocket and glances quickly at the display.

 **boobs lopez**   
_Thanks, loser._


End file.
